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Hilda Doolittle Short Poems

Famous Short Hilda Doolittle Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Hilda Doolittle. A collection of the all-time best Hilda Doolittle short poems


Heat  Create an image from this poem
by Hilda Doolittle
 O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop through this thick air-- fruit cannot fall into heat that presses up and blunts the points of pears and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat-- plough through it, turning it on either side of your path.



by Hilda Doolittle
 Are you alive? 
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you - banded one?

by Hilda Doolittle
 The mysteries remain,
I keep the same
cycle of seed-time
and of sun and rain;
Demeter in the grass,
I multiply,
renew and bless
Bacchus in the vine;
I hold the law,
I keep the mysteries true,
the first of these
to name the living, dead;
I am the wine and bread.
I keep the law, I hold the mysteries true, I am the vine, the branches, you and you.

Oread  Create an image from this poem
by Hilda Doolittle
 Whirl up, sea— 
Whirl your pointed pines.
Splash your great pines On our rocks.
Hurl your green over us— Cover us with your pools of fir.

by Hilda Doolittle
 Amber husk 
fluted with gold, 
fruit on the sand 
marked with a rich grain, 

treasure 
spilled near the shrub-pines 
to bleach on the boulders: 

your stalk has caught root 
among wet pebbles 
and drift flung by the sea 
and grated shells 
and split conch-shells.
Beautiful, wide-spread, fire upon leaf, what meadow yields so fragrant a leaf as your bright leaf?

Acon  Create an image from this poem
by Hilda Doolittle
 Bear me to Dictaeus,
and to the steep slopes;
to the river Erymanthus.
I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower, buds of myrrh, all-healing herbs, close pressed in calathes.
For she lies panting, drawing sharp breath, broken with harsh sobs.
she, Hyella, whom no god pities.

by Hilda Doolittle
 From citron-bower be her bed, 
cut from branch of tree a-flower, 
fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue, cut the width of board and lathe, carve the feet from myrtle-wood.
Let the palings of her bed be quince and box-wood overlaid with the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming, may calm her heart and cool her blood, for losing of her maidenhood.



by Hilda Doolittle
 Silver dust 
lifted from the earth, 
higher than my arms reach, 
you have mounted.
O silver, higher than my arms reach you front us with great mass; no flower ever opened so staunch a white leaf, no flower ever parted silver from such rare silver; O white pear, your flower-tufts, thick on the branch, bring summer and ripe fruits in their purple hearts.

by Hilda Doolittle
 Rose, harsh rose, 
marred and with stint of petals, 
meagre flower, thin, 
sparse of leaf, 

more precious 
than a wet rose 
single on a stem -- 
you are caught in the drift.
Stunted, with small leaf, you are flung on the sand, you are lifted in the crisp sand that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose drip such acrid fragrance hardened in a leaf?

Helen  Create an image from this poem
by Hilda Doolittle
 All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.
All Greece reviles the wan face when she smiles, hating it deeper still when it grows wan and white, remembering past enchantments and past ills.
Greece sees, unmoved, God's daughter, born of love, the beauty of cool feet and slenderest knees, could love indeed the maid, only if she were laid, white ash amid funereal cypresses.

by Hilda Doolittle
 Stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare
as Hesperus, nor yet so great a star
as bright Aldeboran or Sirius,
nor yet the stained and brilliant one of War;

stars turn in purple, glorious to the sight;
yours is not gracious as the Pleiads are
nor as Orion's sapphires, luminous;

yet disenchanted, cold, imperious face,
when all the others blighted, reel and fall,
your star, steel-set, keeps lone and frigid tryst
to freighted ships, baffled in wind and blast.


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